24.July.2001

anti-social sexuality

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anti-social sexuality

Odd things turn me on; my blatant, platinum sexual tension flows regnantly through my temples, down into my face, my mouth, through my teeth, but this time, there's no metallic nicotine longing as I've kept my mouth busy smoking Marlboro Red after Marlboro Red.

I am not multi-orgasmic, but I should be.
Attention to the nipples is never lost.
For the first time in my life, I don't have a prevalent image to go along with my fantasies.
They are taming as I progress through the summer.
The dead center of July is arousing to my senses.
There's something so damn good about sweating.
There's something so damn better about a distant July-evening breeze hitting the back of my neck.
Don't get me started on ice.
There is no one for me sexually at the moment, I go through this alone, but satisfied.
I love satiation in the summertime. This satiation is languid, but excessive, tiring, I. Adore. It.

I want to thank my guests for flocking to my rescue when the boys have turned me down.

But pray tell me how anyone could avoid the tension, the heat, the magnificently good things about summer and about lust.

The wind, the heat, the humidity, yet the blasting moments of aridity, the dimming sun and the fumbling evenings, I feel like a teenager, nubile and vibrant, and I love this.

Anyone who avoids this is not worth my time, sexual or otherwise.

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time & machine